The Left Series (Book 6): Left On An Island

by Fletcher, Christian

  “Smith,” I whispered. He was around twenty feet ahead of me now.

  Smith stopped and turned, still oblivious to the writhing danger, only a couple of feet away. “What?”

  “You might want to move away from that ditch, man,” I said quietly.

  Smith turned forty-five degrees to his right and saw the mass of bodies clawing their way from the trench. He took a couple of backward paces to the center of the road and turned right around to study the opposite ditch.

  “They’re in there on the other side too,” he whispered. He waved me forward. “Get over here, pronto.”

  I didn’t argue and walked quickly to join Smith. Grunting and snorting sounds grew in intensity from both sides of the track.

  “What are they? Why can’t they stand up?”

  Smith shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know but let’s not hang around. A crawler can still bite as good as a mobile stiff. Just keep to the center of the track and if one comes too near, whack it with your spear.”

  We continued onwards along the road towards the village, walking slowly and almost back to back. The creatures crawled from the ditches on both sides and slithered across the track in the twilight. Smith and I quickened our pace, staying close to each other as we moved.

  “We can’t fight them all off, it’s impossible,” I whispered.

  “Use the spear gun if you have to but make sure you don’t miss,” Smith grunted.

  I pulled the loaded weapon off my shoulder and aimed it at one of the squirming shadows emerging from the ditch on our left. I heard a pneumatic clunking sound behind me and realized Smith had fired a shot. I didn’t bother looking around, knowing he’d hit his intended target.

  Taking careful aim at the closing shadowy figure, I released the trigger on my spear gun. The weapon jolted in my hands and I heard the spear thud into the zombie’s skull with a satisfying splitting sound.

  I still held the spare spear in my hand, alongside the stock of the weapon. I hurriedly pushed it into the mechanism and pulled backwards like Smith had shown me earlier. Praying I wouldn’t fuck up, I breathed a sigh of relief when the spear clicked into place and was held fast by the mechanism, cocked back and ready to fire again.

  “Keep moving,” Smith muttered.

  I didn’t reply but thought I was hardly in the mood to stop in the middle of all those crawling freaks. I still wondered why they weren’t standing up and walking after us. Maybe I should have been more appreciative for small mercies.

  The numbers of undead crawling from the ditches dwindled the closer we moved to the village but didn’t stop them inching along the track behind us. I took a look further on from the close ground and saw the whitewashed buildings loom from the semi darkness.

  “Okay, what do we do now?” I whispered.

  “We’ll have to do what we’ve been doing for some time now,” Smith replied cryptically. “Find someplace secure and keep one step ahead of those dead fuckers.”

  We turned forward and walked at a brisk pace once we were satisfied we’d put enough space between us and the crawling creatures. Their moans and growls were still audible back down the track.

  The whitewashed buildings stood either side of the road in little huddles of twos and threes. I didn’t know what purpose the dwellings served, they were kind of dome shaped and larger in size than they’d looked from a distance. They reminded me of igloos but no way could they be made of ice and stay frozen in the humidity of the island. Curved windows ran around the contours of the walls with no lights illuminating the structure’s interiors. I estimated the buildings were around twenty feet high and thirty feet from wall to wall.

  As we drew closer, I noticed each building was surrounded by a low wall, made of the same whitewashed construction. The walls stood no more than six feet away from the buildings, marking the boundaries of each plot. Oval shaped porches cast dark shadows over the entrance doors to each building.

  Our bare feet crunched slightly on the gravel road as we trod between the eerie dwellings. A low moan drifted through the air and we stopped moving. A staggering silhouette lurched from the shadow of a wall to our right. Smith aimed and fired at the figure. I saw a spray of blood as the figure sharply recoiled and dropped back down behind the wall with a spear embedded in its head.

  “We need to get inside someplace,” Smith said, reloading his spear gun. “This area could be crawling with dead heads and we’re not going to see them creeping up on us in the dark.”

  “I agree with that,” I said, glancing nervously around. The light was fading by the second. “What do you think? Break into one of these houses?”

  More monotonous moans and shrieks echoed around the buildings.

  “Looks like we don’t have much choice,” Smith replied.

  I saw human sized shapes shuffling and lurking in the distance, although they were not yet aware of our presence. I hoped it stayed that way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Let’s get inside before we’re spotted,” I said, nodding to the nearest house situated to our left.

  “All right,” Smith agreed. “You lead the way. I’ll cover our six.”

  I hated it when Smith used military jargon. It always took me a few seconds to figure out what the hell he was talking about. Those wasted seconds could possibly mean the difference between life and death, the variation between hesitancy and reaction.

  I trod cautiously through the gap in the front wall and onto the short paved pathway leading to the front door. Smith followed, walking backwards, still facing the road. The brown paving slabs felt hot underfoot but were a welcome surface after walking on gravel and prickly undergrowth for the last few hours.

  Holding the spear gun at waist level, I ducked into the shadows below the front porch. A dark wooden paneled front door, curved in an oval shape at the top stood a few feet beyond the overhanging porch. I held the spear gun one handed and reached my free hand around the edge of the door, searching for a handle of some kind. My fingers curled around a chunky metallic lever and I pressed down hard. The door clunked but didn’t budge.

  “Shit, the door is locked from the inside,” I whispered.

  “Okay, well let’s go around back,” Smith muttered, sounding a little pissed off.

  Smith walked forward a couple of paces, allowing me to move out from the porch. I moved around the side of the domed house, walking through knee high grass. Insects buzzed and hopped around in front of me across the overgrown lawn. I stopped in front of a similar wooden paneled gate in the center of a wall running horizontally between the boundary perimeter and the side of the house.

  I felt too hot and sweat rolled down my cheeks. The rubber wet suit was causing me to seriously dehydrate and I felt as if I was on the verge of collapsing. But I knew I had to stay focused until we got inside. Take your eye off the ball and you were dead.

  Smith followed me across the small front and side garden. He walked sideways with the spear gun held low at his hip, still keeping a watch on the road beyond the front wall.

  I felt around the sides of the gate until I found a latch. I depressed the handle and the latch clicked. The gate swung open a few inches. I turned my head to look behind me and Smith nodded to the open gate, urging me to proceed. He was probably as hot and exhausted as I was and desperate for some rest.

  I pushed the gate fully open and held up my weapon, ready if anybody or anything leapt out at me. A small animal of some sort nearly caused me to sustain a heart attack as it scurried out through the open entranceway. It ran through the long grass, bypassing Smith and fled out onto the road, disappearing into the shadows.

  “What the hell was that?” I whispered.

  “That could have been our supper,” Smith growled. “Come on, will you. Let’s get out of sight of the damn street. Those dead bastards are heading our way. I hear them coming.”

  I swallowed hard, trying to stem the dryness in my throat and stepped forward through the open gate. Another paved pathway with ta
ll grass on either side snaked around the curved wall and led to the rear of the building. A small overgrown yard of around fifteen by fifteen feet sat behind the house. Smith followed me through the entrance and shut the gate behind us.

  I was having trouble seeing anything in the yard due to the failing light. Smith moved up beside me and we studied the space between us and the back wall beyond the grass.

  “Looks clear,” Smith said.

  My focus improved as my eyes adjusted to the dimness. A rusting barbecue grill stood on a small patio area to the right and a narrow shed of some kind sat at an angle in the corner to the left.

  Nothing moved around in the yard so Smith and I turned our attention to the back of the house. Circular shaped latticed windows stood each side of a set of French doors built into the rear wall. The beading between the square glass panels in the doors was made of thick wood. All the doors and windows were closed and only darkness was visible behind the panes.

  I stepped forward and tried the doors. Neither of them opened. I tried both the windows and they too were locked.

  “Shit, we can’t get in,” I groaned.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Smith muttered, pulling a spear from his quiver.

  He slung the gun over his shoulder and moved towards the French doors. I watched as Smith jabbed the spear tip between the wooden door frame and the beading holding the glass panel in place beside the door handle. He jimmied the spear up and down, prizing away the wooden beading. Smith repeated the process on the other three sides of the square glass panel, the pieces of beading falling to the ground. He then stuck the spear tip between the top of the glass panel and the frame and levered upwards.

  “Catch that glass pane,” he ordered.

  I moved forward and bent down just in time to grab the panel as it popped out from the door frame. Smith crouched down, squinting into the blackness beyond the French doors.

  “You see anything moving in there, Wilde Man?”

  I looked through the glass panels and saw only silhouettes of bulky shapes of kitchen worktops and appliances.

  “No, nothing,” I responded.

  “Good thing, I don’t want to get my damn arm chewed off.”

  Smith reached into the black hole where the glass panel had fallen from. He felt around the door frame and I heard a metallic click. He nodded at me and I was sure he tipped me that cheeky wink again, although I couldn’t see it in the near darkness.

  “It’s party time.” Smith clunked the handle and the door opened outwards.

  “What do I do with this?” I held up the glass panel.

  “Leave it against the wall,” Smith said. “We’ll put it back if it’s all clear inside.”

  I crouched down, setting the glass panel leaning against the whitewashed wall beneath the circular window to the right of the French doors.

  Smith pulled the spear gun from his shoulder and held it at the ready at shoulder height. He moved through the doorway into the darkness and I followed behind him. I felt the welcome sensation of cool linoleum flooring beneath my feet and realized how sore the skin on my soles actually was.

  “Close the door,” Smith whispered. “But stay sharp. We need to make certain this place is clear.”

  “Okay,” I muttered, gripping my spear gun and staring into the darkness. I reached behind me and pulled the door closed.

  Smith moved forward, checking the space in front of us. My vision adjusted and I could just about make out a small, rectangular shaped kitchen with hanging closets and countertops running at waist height around the walls. The room smelled of old grease and moldy food.

  We quickly discovered the kitchen was clear of hostiles and knew we had to move on. A fully closed, white painted door stood to our left. Smith held his weapon one handed and felt around for the door handle. He clicked open the door and took a step back as it swung outward. Nothing or nobody emerged from the space beyond.

  I followed Smith through the doorway and we trod cautiously across a tiny hallway, with the front door to our right. An open doorway leading to a small bathroom stood to our left. We moved through an arched entrance and into a larger living room. Stale air attacked my senses with a musty damp stench of old fabric. The fading sun slightly illuminated the living room with a crimson hue through wide rectangular windows, set into the far wall opposite the entranceway. The white painted concave walls gave the room a strange presence, almost as if I was inside a giant ball and the whole place was going to start rolling around.

  The living room was sparsely furnished with big, soft looking cushions piled onto two whicker cane chairs and a double seated sofa. A small blank screened TV set hung from the wall and a low standing coffee table stood beside the sofa.

  I checked out the seating arrangements but didn’t see any corpses or moving bodies. I ducked and checked under the sofa but didn’t notice anything squirming in the shadows.

  “Up there,” Smith said.

  I stood up and followed where he was indicating with the spear gun. I glanced upward and saw a mezzanine floor above the living room. A circular skylight was set in the very top of the building at the peak of the dome. The mezzanine floor was steeped in shadow and ran in a semi circle around the top of the living room walls. A few wooden safety rails ran around the edges of the floor but had a large gap towards the rear of the room.

  “See anything moving up there?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Smith muttered. “We should check it out.”

  “How?” I sighed. I saw two problems with Smith’s suggestion. One – getting up on the floor was going to be a major issue and two – it was too damn dark to see shit up there.

  Power from the major grids had shut down long ago and I doubted whether this small village would have any kind of backup generators that still worked, if any at all.

  “Let’s go back in the kitchen and see what we can find,” Smith said. “There may be a flashlight or something in there.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. We slung the spear guns over our shoulders before trudging back through the entranceway into the small kitchen.

  The room was almost totally dark and I could just about make out the closets hanging on the walls. Smith searched through the low standing closets, banging a few cooking pots and pans around.

  “Shit,” he spat. “Keep an eye on those back doors. Fucking shit in here makes one hell of a noise.”

  I took a glance out through the French doors and saw no movement in the back yard. At least the missing glass pane allowed some fresh air to waft through the house.

  Turning back to the kitchen, I thought I’d start from the doorway and make my way around the room, going through the drawers, wall closets and shelves. I found a gas cooker lighter almost immediately, a thing that produces an orange spark when you click the handle. I threw the useless object on the countertop. No need to try and light depleted gas ovens nowadays.

  I opened a closet and reached around inside. I took out a few old recipe books and tossed them on the worktop. Next to come out of the closet was a china cup with some odd screws and nuts and bolts inside. I moved onto the adjacent closet where I found a few candles and a big box of matches on the top shelf.

  “Hey, at least I’ve found us some illumination.”

  “What?” Smith grunted.

  “Some candles and matches. You think its okay to light one up?”

  “Go for it,” Smith said. “This place don’t seem to have any windows in the front wall so nobody will see the light from the street.”

  I tipped the odds and ends out of the cup onto the countertop and placed one of the candles inside. The first three matches I tried to light simply made a puff sound and failed to ignite.

  “Use one from the center of the box,” Smith instructed. “They are less likely to be damp.”

  I did as Smith suggested and the first match fired up into an orange flame. I hated it when Smith was always right. I held the match to the candle wick until it burned, casting the kitchen into an eerie yellow
glow.

  We resumed our search, ransacking the closets and drawers for anything of use.

  Smith found the fridge but it only contained a few pieces of shriveled fruit, a half empty bottle of milk that looked like it had things growing in it and a couple of eggs probably not fit for human consumption. I found a few packets of dry goods, rice and pasta but totally useless unless we could cook them. I didn’t feel too hungry but I desperately needed a drink of some kind.

  “Ah, what do we have here?” Smith muttered, rifling through the lower closet next to the fridge. He lifted two bottles, one glass, one plastic closer to the candlelight.

  The plastic bottle was a soda brand I’d never heard of and contained a dark liquid. The glass bottle had a black label with fancy white writing on it, proclaiming to be the finest rum in the Caribbean.

  “Let me try that soda,” I said, almost snatching the bottle from Smith’s hand.

  “It ‘aint going to be pleasant, kid,” Smith said, releasing his grip on the plastic bottle. “I was going to mix that with the rum.”

  “I don’t want any booze at the moment,” I sighed, unscrewing the plastic bottle cap.

  There wasn’t a hint of a fizz as I took off the cap and the bottle was around three quarters full. The liquid sloshed around the plastic container but I decided to bite the bullet and take a swig. Did soda go bad? I didn’t know. The soda was flat and warm and tasted a little like cola but with a coconut twist. I didn’t care what it was; it tasted sweet and glorious and hit the spot at the back of my dry throat.

  Smith opened the bottle of rum and took an equally long pull. How could he be necking back liquor when we must have sweated out ten pounds and were as dehydrated as fish lying all day in the sun? The man wasn’t human.